


Warm Shadow

by Thalamus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Community: hannibalkink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Priest!Will, Vampire!Hannibal, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:30:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalamus/pseuds/Thalamus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hannibal enters this church, he expects it to be a quick job. Snatch the human and bring the meat back to the nest. Abigail, recently turned, will be ravenous. But this is no ordinary hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal is the first show that persuaded me to share my fanfics with someone other than my own shadow. Heaven help me.
> 
>  
> 
> *********
> 
> This is a fill for a prompt at Hannibalkink  
> A big *Thank you* to Pinkqueen for the awesome beta.

The putrid smell of burnt flesh lingers in the air.

Normally he avoids places like this, the holy ground burning his very essence. But tonight is different.

The thumping of a healthy young heart, dilating and contracting in terror is a too great pleasure to easily discard.

There is something in the air, something _rare_ calling out to him.

Hannibal pauses at the burnt entrance and braces himself for the pain.

  
He is not disappointed. Looking up, his lips curl in distaste. _He_ is still lingering here, His presence protecting this place even long after the men lost their faith in Him and found something new to kneel and pray to.

Yes, the villagers have a new leader, a master in pagan rituals and a King in the art of deception.

The thumping gets louder, accompanied by shallow breaths. It nearly drowns out everything else.

His prey is slumbering, a prisoner of his nightmare.

He feels his sharpened incisors pierce his gums and his mouth waters at the smell of sweat, fear and desperation enriching its unique essence. The combination is intoxicating. He follows it to the source.

The moon reaches tentative fingers of light through the missing rafters in the church ceiling.

  
He sticks to the shadows, passing stone pillars blackened by soot to the front of the church where the altar once had been.

His prey will never hear him coming. Not until the last moment. And that will only be because he wants to be seen.

He quickens his steps. After all, there is no need to linger where one isn’t welcome. And it is not wise to leave Abigail waiting. She will awaken soon, and she will be viciously hungry.

 He is not entirely sure if turning her was the right choice. She had been erratic and dangerous even before the transformation.

His musings are put to a stop by a sudden gasp. He hears the flutter of clothes, then the sound of someone being sick.

He grimaces at the smell of vomit, rounds the last pillar silently and takes in the broken picture.

There is a young man, retching violently on all fours. He has black curly hair, fair skin.

Smudges of soot coat his young face. They present an unfinished canvas, carefully arranged for Hannibal to play with.

  
The vampire licks his lips, imagining how it would feel to sink his teeth into tender flesh, tasting the bursting red underneath it.

He frowns as the whole picture falls into place with a snap. The man is clothed in the attire of a priest.

After the massacre last week, many priests had been murdered and the ones who weren’t caught were wise enough to flee this forsaken land.

Surely this man knows that only death awaits him here. _Cruel_ _torture, then death._ Hannibal corrects himself, _if they are in a kind caprice._

The young priest expels the remainder of his last meal and moves away, still crawling on his hands and knees.

He is apparently too exhausted to stand.

Hannibal watches as the man slumps further down, his forehead touching the blackened floor. A sob echoes against the burnt walls, followed by another pitiful sound and another.

 

He watches the man break apart and sighs softly. _Base creature._ Hannibal would do him good if he killed him here and now.

So he wonders, his head quirking to the side. He thinks about the best way to kill the human. He can practically see the despair radiating off of him.

He should be merciful, end the man’s agony.

“De profundis clamavi ad Te, Domine”, the priest is looking up at the cross that hangs crooked from the wall, a mocking picture of the former elegance of the church.

“…in vocem deprecationis meæ…” he bows his head, hands clutch a small silver-colored cross. His grip white-knuckled.

He continues to whisper his broken prayer, an urgency underlining every syllable.

  
Hannibal wonders why this man, barely an infant compared to him, seems to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

There is a great amount of guilt surrounding him. This confuses the vampire, it awakens his curiosity.

“….Speravit anima mea in Domino…”

 So he stays in the shadows, listening to the prayer accompanied by the frantic pounding of a beating heart.

He finds himself unable to take the last step. To finish what he came here for in the first place.

He straightens as his ears pick up another sound: Dogs, the whoosh of flames licking at wood and straining against wind, men murmuring, twigs snapping.

They are many, at least two dozen. And they are chasing something, assiduously.

They are pushing in their direction. The smell of rotting flesh and dried blood foreshadows their arrival.

His eyes focus on the slumped figure once more, drenched in sweat. He is lost to his inner turmoil, unaware of the danger he is in.

Hannibal can picture him dying slowly and painfully at the hands of the savages.

Hannibal doesn’t realize he has taken that last step, announcing himself to the kneeling man until the priest jerks in surprise. His eyes focus on the vampire with an unnatural intensity.

Hannibal watches him struggle to his feet, a choked “No!" pushing past chapped lips.

For a long moment they stand in the dark, facing each other. Neither moves.

The man is shaking, whether in cold, fear or pure exhaustion, Hannibal is not sure.

His harsh breathing fills the empty space between them. “W-who are you?”

 

The hunting party is drawing nearer. Hannibal has waited long enough.

In one fluid motion, too sudden for the human’s eyes to follow, he moves behind the man and grabs him.

“N-no, plea-!” The air rushes out of the man’s lungs as Hannibal turns and slams him against the pillar. Hard.

Hannibal watches blue eyes lose focus as the back of his head smacks against unforgiving stone. The vampire’s mouth waters.

He fists locks of dark hair and yanks the priest’s head to the side. The man is too exhausted to attempt true resistance but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try.

The priest buckles underneath him, tries to push him away. “Why a-are you d-doing this?”

Hannibal ignores him, nothing can deter him from his dinner. He sinks his teeth into the carotid artery and the pleasure of fresh blood floods him, drowns out his prey’s howl of agony. 

The weak attempts to push him away slow then stop altogether.

The man’s knees buckle.

Hannibal presses nearer, holding the body upright with minimal effort as he happily absorbs the sanguine fluid.

He has to be careful to leave enough for Abigail, but he has never tasted something so pure, so… _bright_. The taste exhilarates him.

 _Just a little bit more_ , he tells himself. _Just until he loses consciousness_. Then he can carry him back to the mansion for his new family to finish.

Something flashes behind his closed lids and he stops, opens his eyes reluctantly.

He stares, uncomprehending, stumbling back, still lost in the rich taste of plasma to be fully aware of what’s happening.

Without his support, the priest slumps to the floor, his unseeing eyes half open.

Hannibal pays him no mind. He focuses instead on what’s behind the human, or rather on what seems to be protruding out of his back.

Wings. Large, dark wings. They don’t seem to be a part of here and now. They are more like negative space, a sneak peek into another plane of existence.

Sound crashes around Hannibal, yanking him back into the present.

Dogs bark outside, the smell of decay and rotten eggs fills his nostrils.

He swallows uncomfortably. Now the sanguine fluid sticks to his tonsils, burning at the back of his throat.

It tastes like something forbidden. Ah, yes. So he has taken what wasn’t his.

His eyes snap back to the pale face in front of him, then to the wings. Or rather to where the wings had been.

He blinks as the foreign feeling of confusion takes over. _They are gone_. Did he imagine them?

Hannibal approaches the slumped man carefully readying himself for an attack and frowns at the lack of reaction

He grabs the human suddenly, hauling him upright. He wants an end to this game. Time is running short. And so is his patience.

“What are you?” the vampire breathes.

The priest's eyes roll back in his head, his mouth slack.

Growling in frustration, Hannibal slaps him.

The priest flinches hard, his eyes snap open.

 Hannibal hesitates. _Interesting_ , he thinks. _How can something holding such great power be so easily frightened?_

Feverish eyes finally focus on him, then widen as the human recognizes his new nightmare standing right in front of him.

Hannibal covers his mouth before any sound can escape. The man grabs his hand in blind panic. And Hannibal enjoys every second of his febrile fear.

He bends forward to whisper in the man’s ear and feels the priest go completely still. His nostrils flare in panicked gushes of breath that brush against Hannibal’s cold hand.

Oh, what a great pet he would make.

“Listen to me very carefully.” The Vampire pauses to have the man’s full attention. “Are you listening?”

The dirty mop of curly hair bobs in frantic confirmation. The barking outside grows more urgent. The beasts can smell their prey.

“East from here, a day’s march away, there is a forest," Hannibal explains, his voice bland.

"You will start running the moment I let go of you. You will not make a sound, you will not look back and you will not pause, not even for a moment. Because if you do, there will be something worse than death awaiting you. I'm sure your brothers would agree…but their shredded pieces are adorning the village as we speak."

He looks into blue eyes, and finds a spark of defiance in them. Pure amusement surges up, fills his dead heart. Perhaps there is still hope for this man.

Hannibal presses forward, crowds the priest once more. A perverted parody of an intimate gesture.

His nose dips into the crease of the man’s neck.

He breathes in the unique scent of him and slides his tongue against the blood that is still leaking from the puncture wounds.

Just one last taste to remember him.

“Fly, little sparrow,” Hannibal whispers into his ear, then steps back and grins.

The man merely stares back, frozen in shock.

 _Stupid child._ Anger flares up _._ The vampire steps forward, threatening. He lets his eyes flash crimson.

The priest recoils. His hand clutches at his wound while he carefully backs away, never turning his back to the vampire, never taking his eyes off him.

Finally reaching the door, the priest looks out of the burnt entrance then back to the vampire.

He turns away to leave, pauses. His eyes search Hannibal, come to rest on his face. They burn with questions, with despair, radiating a silent cry for help, directed at the monster in front of him.

Hannibal wants to laugh, tell him: _If only you knew._

His blank expression reveals nothing.

 _I am sorry, child_ _but it is not my battle._

Hannibal frowns, he owes this man nothing. Nor the One watching over him. So where did this urge to justify himself come from?

Growing tired of the game, the vampire lets himself dissolve into black mist and rises through the rafters in the ceiling.

He floats through the air above the church and lingers there, watching. 

The young priest is running toward the rising sun. He stumbles through the dense bush and falls. But he stands up.

Every time he falls down he picks himself back up, never pausing. His will to live shines strong.

Something like relief warms Hannibal from the inside. He tries not to notice.

Instead he focuses on his next prey. _Perhaps one of the savages for dear Abigail?_

He certainly cannot and will not acknowledge the fact that he let his prey go tonight.

He feels his hunting instincts take over and welcomes them.

They drown the image of innocent blue eyes, the wings.

They drown the call for help and replace it with pulsing _red red red_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Fink's song.  
> "Warm shadow, won't you cast yourself on me?"  
> Will's prayer is taken from Psalm 130.  
>  
> 
> I am considering a sequel.


End file.
